The bones on the rushes of the Great Hall’s floor cooled slowly.

Jocelynn could not have looked away from them if she had tried. The skull, charred black, lay near Ashlynn’s right foot. Its jaw had fallen slightly open as though Abbot Recared was still screaming even now. The smaller bones of one hand were scattered farther out, where they had fallen when his arm came apart along the line of the burning blade.

A dusting of ash cradled all of it, giving the charred and cracked bones the appearance of burned-out logs in the hearth at the end of the night. Or it would have, if the open-mouthed skull with its empty, staring eye-sockets hadn’t stood as a clear reminder that this pathetic little pile was all that remained of one of the most powerful men in Lothian March after the Marquis and the High Priest.

Jocelynn’s hand clutched the knife beneath her skirts. She didn’t remember sliding her hand through the hidden cut in her skirts to reach the blade, but at some point, as the abbot screamed and died, her grip had grown so tight that her knuckles ached.

She was far enough away from the base of the dias that she couldn’t smell more than the faintest whiff of burning flesh and hair, but she could taste iron at the back of her throat.

It was not real. She knew it was not real. There had been no iron in this hall tonight, only candle smoke and incense oil and the rendered fat of a man who had earned his death twice over.

But the dungeon corridor had a way of opening inside her at the wrong moments, and tonight the smell of burning robes had pulled it wide. She could feel the cold weight of the skinning knife in her palm and Owain’s breath hot against her neck as he whispered instructions in her ear.

Worse, as she clutched the knife hidden by her skirts, her fingers remembered the sensation of cloth and skin parting under a short blade held by a hand that was not entirely her own.

In her ears, Abbot Recared’s anguished cries resembled the strained, exhausted cries of his protoge, though Percivus had screamed far longer than his mentor did. Owain had chosen a knife for her that wouldn’t kill quickly, and she had hammered Percivus’s back until her arm ached and her vision swam. She hadn’t stopped until something inside her had finally emptied out and left her standing alone in a room full of dripping, ruined meat.

Across the floor, her sister stood with the burning sword still held level at Owain’s heart.

Ashlynn’s hand on the hilt was steady. Her shoulders were squared. The fury in the blade had eased, but it had not gone out, and the woman holding it stood inside the white-gold light as though she had been born inside it.

Unlike when Jocelynn killed Percivus, Ashlynn’s hand didn’t tremble or shake, and no tears streamed from her emerald eyes. She was furious, but she was in control... Because, Jocelynn realized, she’d done this before.

Maybe not in front of an entire hall filled with the most important, most powerful men and women of the march, but she’d taken a life before. More than once.

"How," Jocelynn whispered, the word slipping past her lips before she realized she’d spoken. "How many times has she... Has she been forced to..." she tried to ask, but her lips struggled to form the words. How many times had Ashlynn been forced to kill because of what she had done?

How many times had it taken to wear away the bright-eyed idealist who had read Jocelynn bedtime stories, replacing her with a woman who never flinched even as the man impaled on her sword screamed and died.

"Enough to know the pain of it," Isabell said softly, setting a hand on Jocelynn’s arm and giving her a gentle squeeze. "And enough to have lost sleep over it. But not so many that she’s grown numb to it, or become a monster who delights in it," she added.

"Her life hasn’t been easy," Isabell admitted. "But it has its wonders and its joys as well. Do you think less of her for what she’s done tonight?" Isabell asked gently.

"Less?" Jocelynn said, blinking in surprise. "No, no, how could I, when I’ve... I’ve...." When I’ve done so much worse than she has. At least the man she killed had been given a trial. He’d faced the full Lothian Court and received his sentence...

Ashlynn executed Recared the same way their father executed the most heinous of criminals, after his guilt was proven and he’d been given a chance to speak in his own defence.

Her sister stood tall and resolute, dispensing a lord’s justice. She might have been an executioner, but she hadn’t murdered a man in cold blood while he was bound in chains in a dark, dungeon cell. Recared’s death had been agonizing, but it had been over quickly...

Ashlynn had killed a man, and so had Jocelynn, but in Jocelynn’s mind, the two of them were nothing alike. And of the two, Jocelynn knew who was still worthy of love... and who deserved to suffer the way her victims had....

Beside her, Isabell’s brows furrowed as she watched the young lady spiralling inward. The ghosts lurking in those seafoam eyes were familiar ones, but in Jocelynn’s eyes the ghosts were still fresh and new, haunting the young lady’s waking moments as well as her sleeping ones.

Those ghosts hadn’t been there when she last saw Jocelynn, before she met with Ashlynn in the Vale of Mists, and everything changed. But while Isabell had experienced a rebirth as the Hemlock Witch, Jocelynn had suffered more than any of them had imagined she would while living ’safely’ behind the walls of Lothian Manor.

"Jocelynn," Isabell said, hoping to find a way to ease the young woman’s suffering until she could join her sister again. Before she could say another word, however, Owain Lothian finally found his voice....